I shook my head. If I had it all to do again, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time worrying. I would have smiled big for the camera and held Charles’s hand, and when it was finished, I would have run over to Ally and gathered her to me and pressed her sandy cheek to mine. No one tells you how good you have it at the time. No one warns you about how you’ll feel when it’s taken away.
“The necklace.” That had been the last thing he’d said to me. “The necklace.”
I took a deep breath, lifted the edge of the photograph, and pried it out of the frame. There, resting in the locket’s cup, was a small rectangle of white plastic the size of my thumbnail.
A computer chip.
Allison
It happens so fast. One minute, I’m alone on the road, the only speck on the long ribbon of asphalt. The next minute, there’s an eighteen-wheeler hugging my right bumper and a sports car bearing down on me from behind.
It should be a simple maneuver: just merge into the middle lane to let the sports car pass. I flick on the turn signal and glance over my shoulder to check that I’m clear to move, but instead of easing back to let me in, the eighteen-wheeler speeds up. I’m blocked in.
The panic comes on quickly. It’s him, it must be him.
I hit the gas. The Subaru groans and lurches forward. I watch the arm on the speedometer start to climb. Seventy. Seventy-five. Eighty. I look to my right and see the eighteen-wheeler keeping pace. I try to peer up into the cab, maybe catch the driver’s eye, but the truck is too tall and his face is in shadow and all I can see is the bill of his baseball cap. My eyes dart to the rearview mirror. The sports car is just a single car length away now, close enough for me to see the Mercedes badge on the hood. If I tap the brakes, he’ll slam into me, sending me sailing off the shoulder or under the eighteen-wheeler. He’s flashing his headlights, warning me to get out of the way. I’m going eighty-five now but the truck is still there, boxing me in. I feel the car being pulled toward the truck’s wind-suck and tighten my grip on the wheel.
I lean on the horn and strain my neck up toward the driver of the truck. Look at me, I will him. Look! All I can see is the set of his jaw and the peak of his cap. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
One hundred. The body of the car begins to shake. I squint into the rearview mirror. The front end of the sports car fills the entire frame now, blocking out the sun and the sky and the road behind it. The driver is alone in the car, gloved hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses, mouth pulled in a tight line. He flashes his lights again and makes a gesture with his hand.
One hundred and ten. A sign warns of a curve in the road up ahead. I’m only barely keeping the car in my lane going straight—I’ll never make the turn. I can see the long black stream of the asphalt start to bend, and as I tilt the wheel into it I can feel the car grind against it. I can see the bottom of the truck’s cab door painted blue with a faint metallic sheen. The Subaru drifts farther into its gravitational pull as the curve deepens. It’s a matter of inches now.
They had to scrape him off the pavement. That’s what Uncle Jim used to say after a bad accident. Nothing left of the poor bastard.
A sign blinks up ahead. MERGE RIGHT IN 200 FEET. Orange chevrons light the way. MEN AT WORK another sign screams, but there are no men in sight, just a neat line of concrete barriers directly in my path.
A cold sweat blooms at the back of my neck. I brace myself for the screech of metal on metal, the shattering of glass, the weightless, slipping journey through space. The scrape of flesh across the rough sandpaper of concrete. The crack and snap of bone. Blood spreading across the asphalt, thick and too red, its metallic smell mixing with the smell of gasoline and burning.
I’m going to die. I feel strangely calm, as though everything I’ve ever done has been steadily heading for this particular moment, as though I was meant, from birth, to leave this world in flight.
And then, just like that, it’s over. The truck drops away suddenly and the sports car nips in front of it and speeds past, horn blaring. I ease my foot off the accelerator and guide the Subaru into the right lane, missing the merge sign by only a few feet. Eighty-five. Eighty. Seventy-five. Seventy. I steer through the hard turn and emerge on a straight stretch of deserted road. I check the rearview mirror and see the truck turn off at the exit. In front of me, the road is empty. The other car is nowhere to be seen.
There’s a metallic taste in my mouth and I realize I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek until I’ve drawn blood. I try not to notice how badly my hands are shaking as they grip the wheel.
I’m beginning to think I won’t make it home.
No.
I have to make it home.
Maggie
It wasn’t even front-page news in the Owl’s Creek Examiner. That honor went to the first day of football practice for the local high school team and a piece on the plans to freshen up Main Street. Instead it was buried on page 5, just a few column inches and a thumbnail image. The picture was grainy but I knew it was him. Tony.
GUEST FOUND DEAD
The body of a hotel guest was discovered in the early hours of yesterday morning. Anthony Tracanelli, 66, was found dead by a hotel maid who entered the room despite having received strict instructions not to disturb him. The maid explained that she became suspicious after overhearing an altercation in the room, though Tracanelli was alone when his body was recovered. The cause of death is still unknown but police are investigating.
I hadn’t known his last name. I had never even thought to ask.
I could still hear the panic in his voice on the phone, and then the line had cut out, and now he was dead.
I had to tell someone. I had to say these things aloud, otherwise they wouldn’t be real. If they were real.
I called Jim. He picked up on the first ring.
“What do you know about Anthony Tracanelli?” I didn’t bother to say hello, just launched straight into it. I was too worked up for pleasantries.
“The fella who turned up in the hotel room? Not much. It’s under Branville’s jurisdiction, so we don’t have much to do with it.”
“Can you find out?”
“Why do you want to know?”
I sighed. “I know him.”
“You know him? How?”
I scraped a long-set stain on the kitchen table with a fingernail and stalled for time. “I met him at Bowdoin. He told me he was retired, that he was taking classes to fill the time. We got talking, and . . .” I dug my nail deep into the grain of the wood. “We became close, I guess.” I felt awful saying it, like a fool and the worst kind of traitor. Jim had loved Charles like a brother, and even though nothing had happened between me and Tony, I felt like he could still sense something over the phone.
“Right.”
He was waiting for me to go on, but I was silent. I looked over at the computer chip sitting on the worktop next to the stove. This was the moment I had to tell him everything. There was no other way. “There was a computer chip in Ally’s necklace,” I blurted out. “It was hidden inside it. Tony told me about it. I don’t know how he knew, but he did, and then the phone cut off, and now he’s dead.” The words were pouring out of me now, like a faucet on full blast. “He’s dead, Jim, and it’s because of me. I don’t know what in the hell is going on here but I know it’s not good, I know it’s something bad and I can’t make any sense of it anymore. I feel—” I hesitated, pulling the breath deep into my lungs and pushing it out again “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Jim was quiet. I could hear the gears whirring in his head, weighing what I’d said before making a judgment. He was like that: calm in a crisis. Assessing before acting. I was terrified he was going to dismiss me as being crazy. Finally, I heard him clear his throat. “Are you at home right now?”
“Of course I am.”
“Stay right where you are. I’m coming over.”
I set about making a pot of coffee while I waited for him. I looked d
own at the photograph in the paper spread out on the countertop. It was in black and white and the image was slightly blurry, but it was him. Same silver hair, same sad eyes, same warm smile. The sight of it stretched and pulled at my insides, like one of those taffy machines they have at York Beach. Anger mixed with sadness mixed with the stomach-sick of humiliation.
He had kept things from me . . . Wait. No. He had lied to me. He pretended he knew nothing about my daughter when all the time, he knew more than me. He harbored secrets about her, and now that he was gone, he would never reveal them to me. That’s what stung the most—not the lies, but the truth he had taken with him to his grave.
I put my head in my hands. I could still feel the shock of his fingers on my skin as he reached for the necklace. I should have gone with my instincts and kept my guard up. God, I had been such a fool.
I heard Jim’s cruiser coast into the drive and wiped my face with the flat of my hand. I had to pull it together. I needed him to believe me. I couldn’t leave any room for doubt.
He was in the house as quick as a shot. I handed him a cup of coffee and sat him down at the kitchen table. “I spoke to the fellas up at Branville on the way over,” he said, taking a sip. “They’re still working out what happened.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I know what happened. Somebody killed him.”
Jim ran a hand across his mouth. He looked tired and older than his years. “Maggie, I’m going to need you to tell me everything you know.”
So I told him everything. The way Tony had approached me in the library. The memorial. The meeting over coffee. His hint about the necklace, and then the chip itself, which I presented to him nestled in my palm like a pearl. At the end of it, he shook his head. “You should have come to me sooner, Maggie. You should have told me what you were up to.”
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”
He pulled his head back into his neck as if I’d slapped him. “Now, that’s not fair—”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” I said, holding up my hands. “I know it sounds crazy.” I stared at him across the table. “I just wanted to get to the bottom of what happened to her. That’s all.”
He sighed. “I know, but Maggie, we’ve been over this. Ally’s death was an accident.”
“That’s not what I think. That’s not what Tony thought, either.” The chair scraped against the floor as I pushed back from the table. A restless energy burned through me as I paced the room. “The more I find out about what she was doing in San Diego, and the kind of man Ben was . . .” I wheeled on him. “You saw the photographs. You saw how different she looked. Did you know that Ally had stopped working, stopped talking to her friends? She was cut off from everything in the world, all because of that man. Does that sound like the girl you knew?”
Jim sighed. It was the longest, saddest sigh I could imagine. “I haven’t known her since she was a kid,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry to have to say this, believe me I am, but I don’t think you knew her, either. Hell, I barely know my own sons and I see them most weeks. It’s the way of the world, Maggie. Our children grow up and become strangers to us.” He reached out and took my hand in his. “Allison’s gone. I wish that I could tell you something different, but I’ve seen the photos from the crash site and . . . there’s just no way she could have survived something like that.”
I thrust the plastic chip toward him, my fingers shaking as I held it up to him. “Why would she be hiding this in her necklace? It must mean something, Jim. It has to.”
I could see him wavering. “Do you know what it is?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know exactly, but if Ally went to the trouble of hiding it in her locket, it’s got to be important.”
Jim’s eyes went from mine to the chip in my hand and back again. He rubbed a meaty hand across his mouth and sighed. “Give it to me,” he said finally, holding out his hand. “I’ll ask the guys to take a look.” I opened my mouth to thank him but he stopped me. “I’m only doing this if you promise me that when we figure out what this is and it’s proved to be nothing, you’ll drop this once and for all.” I nodded mutely, even though my thoughts were treacherous. “Good,” he said, getting to his feet. He closed his fist around the chip and slid it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “I’ll let you know as soon as we get the results.”
I walked him to the door. “Will you let me know when they find out about what happened to him? To Tony?”
Jim nodded. A little coffee had dribbled onto the front of his shirt, and I thought about Linda trying to wash out the stain. I’d have to tell her to use vinegar. “Just don’t forget our promise. You’ve got to leave it alone after this.”
“I won’t,” I said, as he walked down the path toward the cruiser parked in the driveway. “I’ll try.”
We both knew it was a lie.
1,141 Miles to Go
Allison
I’m somewhere in Indiana, I think, unless I missed the sign welcoming me to Ohio. It doesn’t matter: out here, on the flat stretch of highway, there’s nothing but endless patchwork fields and the occasional box elder or red maple, their leaves glowing gold in my headlights.
There are no other cars on the road, either, just me and the endless stretch of highway, the cat’s eyes winking in the pavement reflecting the stars scattered above.
I’ve been driving for nearly seventeen hours. All the adrenaline has been leached out of me, and I feel emptied and hollow. My eyelids are heavy. They keep pulling down over my tired eyes, and I have to force them open again, like a pair of faulty blinds.
But there’s no time to sleep. No time to stop. They’re out there somewhere, waiting for me. Waiting, too—maybe, God no, but maybe—for my mother. Maybe they’ve already gotten to her. No. I rub my fist into my eyes and press down on the accelerator. I can’t think like that. I have to believe there’s still time for me to get to her.
I jolt awake. The whole car is vibrating, and a deafening buzz fills the air.
I’ve drifted across the lanes and onto the rumble strip. I only have a split second to correct the wheel before the car grinds against the barrier wall.
My heart pounds in my throat. How long was I asleep? A second? A minute? I blink at the clock. Two forty-three. I’m wide awake now but I know it’s too dangerous to keep driving. There’s no way I’ll make it through to the morning. I have to stop for a few hours, get some sleep. There’s a sign for a trucker’s weigh-in station in a half mile, and when it comes into view, I can see a couple of eighteen-wheelers slumbering underneath the flashing neon lights. I sail past. It’s too risky, too exposed. I need a room with a door that I can lock behind me.
I drive for another half-dozen miles, one hand on the wheel, the other pinching the flesh on my inner thigh to stay awake. Finally, it comes into view. The sign for the motel is enormous, two stories tall at least, and the light from it casts a glow that’s twenty feet around. I pull off the highway and wind my way through the sleeping streets into the half-full parking lot. I cut the engine. All the windows in the motel are dark except for one on the ground floor. I haul my bag out of the back, tuck the rifle inside, and walk up to the front door. I expect it to be locked, but it whirs open automatically and I find myself standing in a cramped lobby smelling of Pine-Sol and stale breakfast foods. There’s a little bell on the desk and I ring it.
A door to the side of the desk opens and a woman emerges, blond and neat in a starched blue button-down and pressed navy trousers. She’s pretty and fresh faced and looks startlingly perky for the hour, and the overall effect of seeing her is unnerving. “Good evening,” she says brightly, her face splitting into a wide smile. “How can I help you?”
“I— I need a room,” I stutter. “Just for the night. The rest of the night, I mean.”
I half expect her to throw me out, but she just nods and turns to fetch a key from the board behind her. “Room thirty-one,” she says. “Could
I take a credit card?”
I shake my head. “I could pay in cash up front?”
“That would be fine. I’ll also need a $100 deposit, in case of damages.”
I scramble through the pockets of my bag and hand her a wad of bills, too much I’m sure. She counts them out serenely on the desk and hands back the extra. “Will you be eating breakfast with us tomorrow?”
“No,” I say quickly, and then realize I won’t have eaten a meal in nearly twenty-four hours by then. “I mean, yes. If that’s okay.”
“Of course. Our complimentary breakfast begins at seven a.m. and ends at nine a.m. Would you like a wake-up call?”
The absurdity of the situation is beginning to get to me, and I find myself swallowing back laughter. “No, thank you.”
“Room thirty-one is on the third floor. The elevator is to your left. Would you like help with your luggage?” She nods at the filthy bag resting by my feet, and this time I do laugh.
“No, you’re fine,” I say, lugging the bag onto my shoulder. “Thanks very much.”
The room is small but clean. The walls are papered in gray-and-white stripes, and there’s an innocuous watercolor of a seaside town above the queen-size bed. I wash my face and watch myself in the mirror while I brush my teeth, still surprised by the sharp angles of my face and my close-cut head of hair. I draw the blinds and the heavy curtains and settle into bed. The air conditioner moans quietly, but otherwise it’s completely silent. I reach into my bag and slide the rifle under the bed.
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